ما للغَوانِي وهْوَ لوْنُ خُدودِها

ما للغَوانِي وهْوَ لوْنُ خُدودِها

يَجْزَعْنَ منْ لأْلائِهِ المُتألِّقِ

يَجْزَعْنَ منْ لأْلائِهِ المُتألِّقِ

What ails the fair women, though it is the color of their cheeks,

What care I for the rose's blushing red,

that they shrink from its glittering radiance?

When lilies paler buds unfold,

أو خِلْتُه لمْعَ السّيوفِ ومَنْ يَشِمْ

أو خِلْتُه لمْعَ السّيوفِ ومَنْ يَشِمْ

لمْعَ السّيوفِ علَى المَفارِقِ يفرُقِ

لمْعَ السّيوفِ علَى المَفارِقِ يفرُقِ

Or I thought it the flash of swords—and whoever beholds

Or where the flashing scimitars are spread,

the flash of swords upon the crowns of heads is afraid.

When warriors leave their sheaths of gold.